`What d'ye mean? What are you hooroaring at? What do you want to conwey to your own father, you young Rip? This boy is a getting too many for me!' said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him. `Him and his hooroars. Don't let me hear no more of you, or you shall feel some more of me. D'ye hear?'
`I warn't doing no harm,' Young Jerry protested, rubbing his cheek.
`Drop it then,' said Mr. Cruncher; `I won't have none of your no harms. Get atop of that there seat, and look at the crowd.'
His son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they were bawling and hissing round a dingy hearse and dingy mourning coach, in which mourning coach there was only one mourner, dressed in the dingy trappings that were considered essential to the dignity of the position. The position appeared by no means to please him, however, with an increasing rabble surrounding the coach, deriding him, making grimaces at him, and incessantly groaning and calling out: `Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!' with many compliments too numerous and forcible to repeat.
Funerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr. Cruncher; he always pricked up his senses, and became excited, when a funeral passed Tellson's. Naturally, therefore, a funeral with this uncommon attendance excited him greatly, and he asked of the first man who ran against him:
`What is it, brother? What's it about?'
`I don't know,' said the man. `Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies!'
He asked another man. `Who is it?'